


Sleep Patterns

by keelywolfe



Series: by any other name [76]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Little Smuttiness, M/M, Panic Attacks, Spicyhoney - Freeform, Teasing, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Undertale Monsters on the Surface, kustard - Freeform, papcest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:11:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: Drabbles in the ‘baon’ universe around a theme of sleep.





	1. Comfortable Positions

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses. I have several drabbles planned that fall around the theme of sleeping or bedtime, and I thought I’d put them all in one spot. 
> 
> There's something about sleeping with someone, isn’t there? Actually sleeping. Trusting someone when you’re at your most vulnerable.
> 
> I’ll grant a rare moment here and say if there’s anything you’re thinking of that might fit the bill, let me know. I can’t make promises about writing it but I love ideas or headcanons. ^_^

* * *

It was later than he'd meant when Edge finally shut down his laptop. 

He groaned as he stood, joints popping as he stretched and a glance at the clock made him wince. Stretch had gone to bed hours ago, a perfectly common occurrence. Usually Edge would join him for a bit, allowing his love to choose which spoon he wanted to play that night or perhaps taking the time to worship the lovely bones that Stretch never hid beneath pajamas. 

But often Edge would get up again after Stretch fell asleep, leaving him to slumber for a few hours on his own while he did a few chores or worked. Much as he loved holding his husband in his arms, he simply didn't need as much sleep as Stretch did and even after a rousing bout of sex, once the afterglow wore off he usually rose afterward to shower and do something else, leaving Stretch behind in sated, sleeping collapse. 

Tonight was later than he usually went back to bed and he still wasn’t exactly tired yet. His restlessness was unfocused, but his urge to be near Stretch was not.

The choice was not a difficult one. A quick double check of the door locks and he was on his way back upstairs.

Earlier, he’d left Stretch sound asleep, curled up with traces of sweat still damp on his bones. In the time Edge was gone, Stretch managed to get tangled in the blankets in such a way that his head was almost covered but an entire leg was bare, nearly dangling from the mattress.

Edge only shook his head. With the ease of long-time experience, he straightened the covers, carefully tugging them free and settling them back over the mattress. Next came coaxing Stretch into letting go of his pillow. Depending on the night, he often found Stretch with not only his own ridiculous amount of pillows but a stolen one of Edge’s as well, curled around it and his chin buried in as much as the firm cushion allowed. 

As expected, Stretch barely stirred. He was as accustomed to this nightly ritual as Edge was.

Once the the blankets were straight, Edge hesitated, considering. Despite the air conditioning, the upstairs room was still a little warm. Edge stripped off his pajamas, sliding into the bed as bare as Stretch always slept with the exception of his gloves. The moment he did, Stretch moved to curl up against him, snuggling in tight against his side.

The feel of his cooler bones made Edge sigh appreciatively. He pressed a light kiss on top of Stretch’s skull, breathing in his scent. Stretch showered before bed tonight and the slight taint of cigarettes that normally clung to him was absent. There was only the sweetness of his magic, coupled with Edge’s spicier one lingering on him. The mixture was viscerally satisfying, temptingly so. But he wouldn’t wake Stretch again, even if the chance of him declining was vanishingly unlikely. He did need his rest. Instead, Edge unlocked his phone one-handed. Past experience taught him that the light wouldn’t wake Stretch. 

Now that he was settled in comfortably, perhaps he’d be able to focus. He loaded a digital novel rather than work as he tried to get his restless thoughts to settle.

Halfway through the third page, Stretch stirred, making a querulous sound. One of his hands began fumbling sleepily over Edge searchingly. Edge held still, more curious than anything as to what Stretch was seeking, his hand perhaps? He did like to tangle their fingers together.

Or maybe…

…ah.

Edge stifled a embarrassingly high sound as Stretch’s hand settled directly between his legs with a startlingly firm grip, slender fingers curling around his pubic symphysis and holding tight.

Well, that was unexpected.

Setting his phone aside, Edge started on the delicate operation of moving that hand. First with care, then a little harder in desperation. It didn't hurt, yet, but it was on the cusp of discomfort. Worse, his magic was taking an interest in the proceedings. Math was not Edge’s strength but even his subconscious could add that touch to that place and come away with a sum of sex.

Finally, Edge wriggled those clinging fingers loose and relocated them to a less...ah...sensitive location at his ribs. They curled against the bones amicably enough and Stretch sighed in his sleep.

Well, that hadn’t quite been the sort of relaxation Edge was been looking for. The exact opposite of it. His magic was tickling at his pelvis, his husband was curled even tighter against him and Edge was the very definition of wide awake. The absurdity of it all hit him at once and the bed shook as he tried to hold in laughter.

Next to him, Stretch stirred. 

“babe?” Stretch slurred out. He blinked sleepily, pale eye lights unfocused.

“Go back to sleep,” Edge managed to choke out, still struggling to hold back his amusement.

Only Stretch’s gaze was sharpening and the warmth of Edge’s agitated magic beneath the blankets was unmistakable. “you sure? seems like you have a little lighting problem down there, and i’m a pretty handy electrician.”

“Little…!” Edge started indignantly. It broke off into a groan as Stretch’s hand slipped down back between his legs, more knowingly this time.

Edge sighed and relaxed back, letting those clever fingers work. It was, admittedly, a pleasant way to handle his restless insomnia.

Heh. Handle.

He kept the pun to himself. Better not to get Stretch going down that road, or they’d never get any sleep.

-finis-


	2. The Limitations of Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stretch was okay. (he was absolutely not okay)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Please be aware that this chapter contains a depiction of a panic attack. Keep safe!

* * *

He wasn’t quite asleep, stumbling through that foggy grayness of just before waking, where dreams linger. He was already forgetting what it was about. It seemed important at the time but that was the way of dreams, everything hyper-focused on the dreamer, and lingering in that in-between place he almost remembered, he could almost remember everything, _everything_ —

The door bursting open tore away the veil and Stretch sat up with a gasp, looking wildly around the dark room. It was mostly barren, only a bookshelf against the wall and his thin twin mattress, the sheets balled up into his lap. In the doorway was a familiar figure cast in shadow by the light pouring in from behind them, but in his disorientation, at first Stretch couldn’t tell who it was.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Blue sang out. He came into the darkened room with determination, already reaching for the tangled covers to tug them free. 

Stretch blinked at him dumbly. This was…wrong. He should be at home with Edge, teasing him about his latest attempt at Thai food or watching tv or sitting together out back with the chickens in the new porch swing. He shouldn’t, couldn’t, be here with his brother bustling around and any moment he’d scold Stretch about getting ready for sentry duty. This was one of the old memories, the endless loop broken, he shouldn’t be here unless—

He tried not think of the word, clinging desperately to the childish belief that if he didn’t think of it, it couldn’t be true.

But it wormed its way through his thoughts, damningly. 

_Reset._

No.

It might have been aloud or only in his mind, but it echoed, trebled, thundering inside his skull. 

_No, this isn’t happened, it isn’t, it isn’t, no, no, no nonono, they made it out they are on the surface, not their surface but a surface, Edge, he’s with Edge, loves him, loves him so much, with every pulse of his soul, please no, please, he hasn’t prayed to the angel since he was a stupid kid, but please, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, please please_

The taste of salty sweetness was thick on his tongue, the stinging flavor of his own tears, and he couldn’t breathe. 

It barely registered that he was moving, being moved. Even as he blinked in the suddenly harsh light, he couldn’t find a way out of the panicked whirl of his thoughts. Couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, his soul was throbbing, hurting like it might splinter in his chest, because he couldn’t, oh, he couldn’t, not again, and he could hear his name—

Wait. Not his name, his other name. Still his but he hadn’t had it before the Aboveground. That voice, too, puncturing through the bubble of his panic with the force of an ice pick. 

“Stretch!” Edge was gripping his upper arms, too tight, the pain registering with the suddenness of a slap. He gave Stretch a hard shake and his head wobbled on his neck like a flower in the wind. His tongue caught between his teeth and Stretch yelped, blinking hard and looking at Edge a bit wildly. “I’m here, I’m right here, love, it’s all right.”

“you’re here,” Stretch whispered. Too low to even hear himself and he cleared his throat and repeated it, choking out a thread of sound. “you’re here. you’re here.”

“Don’t talk, just breathe with me, all right? Breathe,” Edge inhaled deeply in demonstration and that was stupid, he knew how to breathe. Stretch followed along anyway, a deep gulp of air in and out, again, and the fuzzy grayness he hadn’t even noticed threatening at the edges of his vision abated. 

“okay,” Stretch said, mostly under his breath and to no one at all. He was focused on breathing, cool glorious air in, then exhale, out, following Edge. “okay, okay.”

“You’re okay,” Edge agreed.

He really was not okay. Stretch raised a hand, staring distantly at his shaking fingers and Edge took it firmly, pressed it against his cheekbone. The bone felt scorching against his own cold palm. “I’m here, right here, love. You fell asleep during the movie, I took you upstairs to let you get some rest.”

“rest,” Stretch repeated, dumbly. They were downstairs, he realized, and he was sitting on the sofa with Edge kneeling in front of him. Edge looked so worried; his beautiful, crimson eye lights were constricted to little pin dots. Over his shoulder, Stretch could see Blue standing nearby, looking as if he’d dearly love to push Edge out of the way and take his spot. Probably the only reason he didn’t try was that Edge was pretty much living proof against a reset.

Not a reset, and his shaking was getting worse. The panic was abating and leaving behind a vacuum that his body seemed to think bone-rattling shakes could fill. 

On the love seat, Sans and Papyrus were sitting together like they always did movie night. Only instead of Sans leaning half-asleep against his bro, he was kneeling on the cushion so that Papyrus could sling an arm around him. Papyrus was radiating palpable concern, chewing absently on the gloved fingertips of his free hand, maybe to help him keep his mouth shut and fuck knew Stretch probably would have said something stupid already if it’d been someone else sitting here bawling.

Red was lying sideways in an armchair, staring up at the ceiling like maybe if he squinted, he’d see the secrets of the universe written in Times New Roman. He blinked, slowly, didn’t look away from the ceiling. 

Welp, the only thing more awkward than this was when they’d all been sitting together for the first time in Sans and Papyrus’s living room, melting snow still dripping from their boots as they all stared at someone else wearing distorted versions of their own faces. 

His own personal face felt wet, tears or sweat. Stretch wiped ineffectively at his cheekbones with bony fingers. Just his luck that today he was wearing a tank top, he didn’t even have a fucking sleeve to wipe with. Mostly joking, Stretch mumbled, “had to bring me down here to humiliate myself in front of everyone?”

“ain’t nothing humiliating about it,” Red said sharply. He kept his gaze on the ceiling, his eye lights never flickered. “you need to see us here, prove to yourself it’s real? We’re here.” 

“Yes, we are, Stretchy-me!” Papyrus finally blurted, “When you think we aren’t real and we are, we can listen even when all your talking is screaming!”

“thanks, paps,” Stretch managed a little smile, “sorry for the screaming, it’s stupid for me to forget.” 

To his surprise, Papyrus clambered to his feet. He was always energetic, not held back by low HP and Stretch wasn’t fucking jealous about that at all. But he only offered Stretch a clean handkerchief as he said with uncommon gentleness. “It’s easy to remember here where we can remind you. But inside your head where we aren’t is harder.”

Stretch nodded, mopping up the tears and that seemed to be a signal for Edge. Either Stretch seemed calm enough for his tastes or he couldn’t take it anymore, because he moved like a damn tiger on a nature documentary. One minute he was kneeling on the floor and the next he was on the sofa, dragging Stretch into his lap. 

It felt…not bad, fuck, no, given a choice between being a lapful and sitting on his own and Stretch would snug his pelvis right on top of those skintight jeans his husband poured himself into any day. But somehow, it felt strange to let Edge cuddle him in front of everyone like this, when it was more about comfort than affection. He wanted it, but—

The television suddenly turning on caught the other’s attention like a fishhook, the screen lighting up with the precise moment George Clooney started howling about being a man of constant sorrow. No one said a thing, turning one by one to watch though Blue cast a meaningful look at Red who finally gave up on deciphering the ceiling and turned his attention to the movie, tossing the remote on the coffee table with a flick of his wrist. 

Stretch sighed, sinking back into Edge’s arms and watched with everyone else. The arms around him were too-tight, gloved fingers pinching. In a minute, Stretch was going to squirm a bit, remind Edge that he wasn’t going anywhere either. But not yet. 

They were here, they were all here. 

It was okay. 

-finis-


	3. A Bed With a View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stretch is a heavy sleeper. It’s a good/bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E, for sexy times like handjobs and masturbation. Very slight question of consent over touching a sleeping person, but it doesn’t go far.

* * *

Edge didn’t often wake Stretch after he’d fallen asleep at night. His love needed his rest, didn’t need to be woken, even if Edge knew Stretch would only roll into his arms with sleepy enthusiasm, eager for whatever pleasures Edge was offering. 

Even knowing that Stretch didn’t mind, he tried to keep nighttime indulgences to a minimum. But there were times when the urge was stronger than Edge could resist. 

Particularly when he came into their bedroom with Stretch looking like this; the covers dragged down by his sleeping wriggling until they barely covered his pelvis, the curves of his iliac crests peeking out temptingly. The line of his spine rising out of the blankets, an intricate path leading to the smooth planes of his ribs.

Entirely too much to resist. 

Edge took a moment to strip away his clothes before kneeling on the bed. Bowed his head to nibble a journey up the path of Stretch’s spine.

The effort earned him a slight squirm, Stretch sighing in his sleep. And again as Edge petted him softly, stroking ribs and pelvis, the velvet of his gloves rasping against smooth bone. Stretch curled up closer, arching a bit into the touch. But to Edge’s frustration, he remained stubbornly asleep, even after a light swirl of his fingers into the dim magic gathering at Stretch’s pelvis. It didn’t coalesce into eager genitals and Edge sat back on his heels in dismay.

That was as far as he was willing to press. If Stretch wasn’t waking readily, he obviously needed his rest. But Edge’s magic was even more stirred up, his cock ready and eager, and without an outlet.

Well, the self-service option was still available.

He should go to the bathroom but—he wanted Stretch close to him. It teetered on the border of consent; he was sure Stretch wouldn’t mind and yet he hadn’t asked.

In the end, the urge was too much to resist. Settling to lay on his side of the bed, Edge wrapped a hand around his cock and groaned softly, thrusting briefly into the touch. It didn’t feel quite right and after a moment of mental debate, he lifted a hand to his mouth, biting the fingertips of his glove to tug it free.

Another try with bare, skeletal fingers and that had him struggling to hold back a cry. Better, so much better.

Before Stretch, Edge viewed masturbation as an occasional necessity, something of a pleasant chore on mornings that he woke with his magic agitated from unremembered dreams. 

That was before he’d learned the pleasure that could be wrought from a simple skeletal hand, the way he could be teased to the brink again and again, or how a tight, jerky grip could bring him off in moments.

He thought back to the last time Stretch touched him like this; in a shared shower after his daily run. The adrenaline could be stimulating, the urge usually washed away along with his sweat. But to have Stretch step into the water unexpectedly, to slink up behind him and slip his arms around Edge’s pelvis, his chin propped on Edge’s shoulder as he looked over and watched his own hands stroking Edge’s length through the rush of water until Edge could only brace himself against his husband, trusting Stretch to keep him on his feet as he shuddered.

It was a good memory. Edge rubbed a thumb over the head of his cock where eager dampness gleamed. He watched through narrowed sockets, the bright crimson of his magic against pale bone. His hands couldn’t readily be mistaken for Stretch’s, but if he squinted, the scars hidden by the dim light, it was almost enough. Stretch was next to him, the sweet, heady aroma of his magic strong and these were his hands around Edge, gripping him tightly, stroking him with that little twist of his wrist on the upstroke and—

“Hngh!” Edge couldn’t stop the low grunt that escaped him when he came. The hot spurts of his release were mostly caught into the ready cup of his palm and he sank back against his pillows, trying to calm his breathing enough to go wash his hands.

“that was a hell of a show, babe.”

Briefly, Edge closed his sockets. But he refused to be embarrassed and opened them again quickly to see Stretch’s sockets were open, his pale eye lights glowing.

“Thank you, I wasn’t expecting spectators,” Edge said dryly. 

“you’ll know better next time, i’d buy a ticket to the encore.” Stretch reached out, trailing his more delicate fingers over Edge’s broader, scarred ones. He smeared the tips with Edge’s release, staining the pearly white bone crimson. Rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as if testing the texture and the visceral thrill it gave Edge to see his magic on Stretch was more embarrassing than ever being caught with his hand on his dick.

Stretch only hummed thoughtfully and his sudden smirk would make anyone with an ounce of sense wary. He waggled his stained fingers teasingly. “wanna watch me?”

Watch Stretch touch himself with fingers slickened by Edge’s magic? Watch him wrap a hand around his own hardened shaft, smearing it with rich crimson. Or perhaps pressing those slippery fingers to his pussy, sliding them inside one, two, three, thrusting gently and his head dropping back with a moan, exposing the lovely, delicate bones of his cervical vertebrae that begged for a mouth against them?

Edge swallowed hard and managed to husk out a single word. “Yes.”

That mischievous smirk widened and Stretch moved, scooting back to sit against the headboard.

He spread his femurs, already trailing his damp fingertips up the insides as Edge settled in to watch. 

-finis-


	4. Nocturne (kustard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red isn’t so great at sharing a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is kustard as per request. Not quite what was asked for, it took a turn down angsty lane.

* * *

The thing is, Red isn’t actually interested in sleeping with anyone. 

Actual sleeping, not fucking, he’s pretty damn fine on fucking and he don’t mind spending the last of his day being someone else’s hard ride into town. Don’t even have to put him away, Red’s fine with sleeping in the wet spot.

Sleeping, now. Snoozing, napping, whatever you wanna call it. He’s not much for cuddling in the afterglow, is all, and he’d much rather get in his zzz’s on his own dime.

It damn well wasn’t part of the deal when he and Sans started this whole line of bullshit, on that Red was pretty fucking sure.

Somehow though, Sansy managed to weasel himself into Red’s bed, even past all the fun parts, the same way Sans wriggled his way into everything. Sad to admit it’d been even easier than getting into Red’s shorts. That’d been more of a journey, months of bullshit, batting sarcasm and insults back and forth like they were trying out for the ‘fuck you’ Olympics. 

Almost a shame, really, a fine rivalry was nearly as good as getting off. 

All that got flipped around on one of those diplomatic missions, where Paps and Blue played nicely-nice with the locals and Red worked at keeping their asses out of a vacuum bag. It was a bitch every time, too many schemes to look out for and not every Human wanted ‘em dead. Some of them wanted to drag out the ol’ metal tables and scalpels, and Red wasn’t much interested in helping anyone complete their evil scientist certification.

In theory, Sans worked for him on those missions and was supposed to do as he was told. In practice, he fucked off and did whatever he wanted, without so much as a see ya later, soldier.

Woulda pissed Red off more than it did, and make no mistake, he was pissed about it, but Sansy had a knack of figuring out things that Red missed, usually handled them in his own way. Little more subtle than Red preferred, but there was no chance Papyrus was gonna get hurt on one of these little excursions, not with Sans keeping a socket out.

Drove Red bug-fucking straight up a wall not to have a finger in all the cooking pots, but even he could admit he was grudgingly impressed. This soft little ‘verse wasn’t Underfell, not even close, but it had a darkness hiding beneath the candy comfort and Sansy had a way about him. He could be a stone cold fucker underneath that lazy little grin.

It was that grin that got Red in the end, that unshakeable smirk and trying to crack it somehow landed them in the sack together. Red was still trying to put the pieces together on how that happened but eh, he’d never liked puzzles as much as the boss, only the end results.

Cool as he was, Sans could be pretty damn hot, too, and it was one of the best parts of Red’s day to peel that layer of apathy away, turn that expression of bland disinterest into one of desperate pleasure. Gone were the days Sans wore his depression around like a second hoodie, his little chats with that therapist helped with that.

But Sans still swanned around as serene as a fucking nun singing in the Alps and any chance to shake it free, send his emotions rattling down like loose change, that was worth the effort.

Fucking him was a cheap way of breaking through that calm and Red cherished every single whimper, every time Sansy’s voice broke or his hands shook, he truly did.

What he hadn’t counted on was getting stuck in the aftermath. See, Sans was down for a good dicking any old time. Thing was, he tended not to leave when the dicking part was over. That was something Red hadn’t added to his equations; he’d always been kind of shitty with math, his days in the labs hadn’t given him much access to a lab coat and he was fucking grateful for it.

Somewhere in the butterfly effect differences that made their universes, Sans skipped the lesson on orgasms being the endgame and that a cigarette afterward should be a key to have a good night, see ya next time. 

Sansy…he lingered. Smoked his own, curled up close and spent time tracing the scars on Red’s bones like they were new star maps he was puzzling over. He’d fall asleep and was suspiciously resistant to any pokes and prods, all the pushing insistently at his skull, and one time actually getting shoved to the floor. 

On that occasion, Red was expecting him to get up pissed, snap off a few bars of sarcasm to share and that’d be the last time they’d work on polishing pelvises. Red sat there, smirking down at Sans who was blinking up at him from his sprawl on the floor. Ignored the kernel of coldness sitting in his soul, cause if he’d known this was the last time, he’d‘ve made it last a little longer, gotten in a couple more tastes.

He hadn’t planned on kicking Sans out of bed, but he’d been so close, so clinging, snoring away and not even noticing the way Red couldn’t slow his breathing, sharpened fingertips pushing through the sheet to gouge into the mattress. His foot lashed out without his permission, shoving Sans away, just _away_ , no special destination in mind. Him hitting the floor was an unexpected bonus and now this could end the way it was always supposed to, with shouting and threats, and storming out. There would be a barrier thrown up between them every time they met after and Red would be fine with that.

_(He’d be able to breathe again, he would, it would be better, so much better, Sans would be better, he’d be safer, he would be)_

Only Sans never did like to follow a fucking script. He was a master of improv, only stood back up with a yawn and an ass scratch before climbing back into bed. Kept his distance this time, didn’t try to snuggle on in and Red sat there half the night, watching him sleep.

His foot had twitched once, a feeble offer to try again, but Red ignored it. Anything that don’t work the first time don’t bear repeating.

Hard to say what Sans knew, what he didn’t know. Red could break through the easy barriers and get him to plead for more, but couldn’t find where Sans stored his honesty, never could find his way around the inside of his skull.

Did he know that Red woke up that first night Sans stayed with his soul pounding heavily, that he already had an attack formed and pressed to Sans’s sleeping back? Have any idea how long it’d taken for Red to sleep through with Sans there, how many nights he’d lain awake, feeling the skitter of his sins crawling on his back in counter-rhythm to Sans breathing peacefully against him?

Somewhere behind those pale eye lights, tucked away with all the other bullshit that Sans shouldn’t know, was there a trembling awareness that some days, Red didn’t want him to leave? What he wanted were pipe dreams; a collar willingly around Sans’s throat with Red’s name on it, the assurance that Sans would do what he was told _one fucking time_.

Liabilities, always about liabilities and the lies they told themselves about keeping ‘em safe. Such bullshit; Red couldn’t even keep Sans safe from himself.

And he didn’t want to sleep with someone else, never had. Liked to be on his own. But tonight, he only pulled Sans a little closer, listened to the softness of his breathing, and whispered another comforting lie into his soul.

Some days, Red almost believed it.

-finis-


	5. Sleep Deficit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some nights are talking nights, where you say the kinds of things you can only say in the dark.

* * *

When it came down to it, if you took out equations and formulas and went with estimates, Stretch and Edge were about the same size. He had Edge beat for a couple inches in height. Edge was broader than him, but not outrageously so. They could wear the same clothes without either one of them looking like a kid playing dress up, which was handy dandy whenever they went someplace with a dress code that was elevated slightly above ‘hoodie’.

Besides, most days Edge got a kick out of seeing Stretch in his clothes, and who was he to deny Edge the simple pleasures?

But yeah, about the same size with a seam allowance of an inch or two in any direction. So how it was that Edge seemed somehow bigger to Stretch was a mystery for the ages. It was like he carried this larger than life aura around with him and some days it made Stretch want to cuddle in close and let Edge keep the world away. 

Not that Stretch couldn’t handle himself, thanks. He could, he’d done it for years before Edge turned up in his life in his fuck-me boots. Didn’t mean he had to all the time, and if Edge wanted to add Stretch into everything else he lugged around, welp, Stretch’d lost that fight a long time ago. 

But it sure as fuck didn’t mean Edge had to carry the burden of it _all_ the time. 

It was the bed shifting that woke Stretch that night, and that alone was cause for alarm. 

Edge usually stayed up later than him, on most nights. Oh, he’d go to bed with Stretch for some snuggles or mattress calisthenics, but if he wasn’t sleepy, he’d get back up after and go do other stuff. 

That was fine; it wasn’t as if Edge had low HP dragging him down to nighty-nightville. But him jostling the bed this hard was weird, Edge was usually super careful about it. So, either he did it by accident or he wanted Stretch to wake up.

Stretch had a pretty good guess for the coin toss on that one

Could be that Edge was after a second helping of metaphorical honey tonight, and Stretch was in the mood to hop on the buffet. But there wasn’t any tugging on the blankets, no gloved hands creeping along any bones Stretch left exposed. No attempt to dig into dessert was what he was saying. 

So, he opened his sockets, just a little, to take a peek at what he was dealing with here. Edge was sitting crosslegged on top of the blankets. Still dressed, in his at-home clothes, jeans and a plain t-shirt with his bony bare feet tucked under his knees. Even in the dark, Stretch could that face, the expression that allowed a tiny hint of misery to show…yeah.

Silently, Stretch opened his arms and Edge crawled into them immediately, settled his skull on Stretch’s rib cage and clinging tightly.

That was fine, Stretch could hang on just as tight. He settled his cheekbone against the top of Edge’s skull to wait. It might take a while. He wished he’d kicked the blankets off; the barrier of it between them was an annoyance, but not enough of one for Stretch to let go, not even fucking close. 

Sometimes, Edge wanted to talk about it and did, haltingly, because Edge kinda sucked at talking about things that hurt him. Yeah, because Stretch had a gold medal in emotional communication? Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he only lay in Stretch’s arms and he didn’t cry, but his breath would hitch a little and the well of protectiveness that swelled in Stretch in those moments, eh, it was probably good that Edge couldn’t see his face. But whatever his baby wanted, needed, Stretch would wait for it, lying awake for hours, even if the delicate light of dawn started creeping in through the window. 

Tonight seemed like it was a talking night. 

“I was thinking about Underfell.”

Okay, that didn’t usually mean anything good. Stretch only held on, whispering encouragingly, “yeah?”

Edge shifted against him. Not trying to pull away even in the slightest, more like he was trying to figure out if there was a way to get closer, like somehow he’d calculate a way through the bedclothes and blankets to allow them to occupy the same space. “I was wondering if I ever really made a difference there. If I’m making a difference here.”

The urge to say ‘of fucking course you are’ was pretty damn overwhelming and the words were hovering agitatedly right behind Stretch’s teeth. But that was the easy way out, all junk food comfort and Edge didn’t really care for crap like that.

“i could tell you yes,” Stretch said slowly. He trailed his fingers down the back of Edge’s t-shirt, following the bumps of his spine through the thin cloth. Felt the faint sigh of Edge’s breath. “but i think maybe that’s not enough.”

He considered the question like a puzzle and Stretch’d never been as good at them as Edge and Papyrus, as his bro was. But he knew the techniques even if they didn’t interest him much, and he turned the question this way and that in his head, checking every angle, searching for the correct path. 

“okay, ask yourself if debbie thinks you’ve made a difference,” Stretch told him, and he was gonna little red riding hood his way down this road, trying to ignore if any wolves poked their warning snouts out. “if andy does, your kids at the y, the minions. ask the monsters at the embassy, every person living in new new home that has a better life here on the surface because you always make sure we’re taken care of. making sure some humans don’t pass laws against us, that we have the funds to keep new new home up and running, keep everyone safe.”

He heard the way Edge’s breathing hitched, just once, felt the stuttered rhythm of his breathing. It made Stretch wish there really _was_ a formula for holding Edge even closer and if he had the time, he might start working on it, the science of affection.

Instead, he pressed a kiss to the top of Edge’s skull, right where the thin crack that went through his eye socket ended. “look, you can’t measure everything you’ve done against what you haven’t. it’s never going to balance, even if you kill yourself working too hard. you can’t save the world, babe, but you’re doing a damn good job with your corner of it.”

Edge didn’t say anything; looked like that was all the talking he had stored up. And Stretch couldn’t be sure if anything he said made it through, made a difference. 

So, Stretch let his soul manifest. Hidden beneath his shirt and a layer of blanket, but he knew Edge noticed by the way he inhaled. Edge didn’t try to touch, made no move to sneak a hand in, not that Stretch would’ve stopped him. 

But he let out a little sigh, the press of his cheekbone firming against Stretch’s rib cage and he would be able to feel the pulse of it, the warmth. Hopefully, he’d be able to feel all the fierce love Stretch felt for him, his belief, because he fucking _believed_ in Edge, he did, and maybe Edge thought he could do better, but as far as Stretch was concerned he was already doing the best he possibly could, gave as much as he could. It wasn’t _everything_ Edge could offer, nope. But it was enough. 

They lay together a long time in silence, only faintly broken by Edge’s fingertips rasping against the comforter, petting right above where Stretch’s soul pulsed. Eventually, he had to let go of the manifestation, tried not to hear the faint, disappointed sound Edge made when he did. 

Softly, Stretch offered, “you can turn on some music if you want?” 

Sometimes it helped Edge rest, even if it brought back memories of an old beat-up Walkman and scratchy, abused cassettes pouring out their own soul through a broken pair of headphones. 

For a long moment, Edge didn’t move. Then he shifted and there were a couple soft taps on a glass touchscreen, music rising lightly into the air as Edge settled back against him. 

Stretch pulled Edge in close, breathing in his warmth; he didn’t care much for Frank Sinatra, but he could survive one night.

-finis-


End file.
